Stealing glances at the glowering clockface,
Wednesday afternoon, the workweek’s foreboding
balance sheet. The liabilities are quarts
of good intentions rotting on the vine.
Beading assets are teaspoonfuls of quicksilver.
Quarts and teaspoons are inscrutable units.
Meaning-well carries Happy Hour arguments
in favor of ascending out of the red.
Unventured ventures worm into old wounds
from mythical wars with clockwork and mercury flavor.
Shake off the undone deed’s rack and burrow.
Chip some coins into a Styrofoam cup.
Take in some culture. Professor Glib Retort
hikes up his pants and hies himself to a podium.
Retort cites medical journals of no ill
repute to the effect that no one cure can treat
diseases of the “Dark Continent.” He capably
doubts it could be otherwise, like not asking
why white people are not scrubbing airport
urinals, why only older folks broom its floors.
Instead of such questions, arrive at the lovely home
of the West County Whitcombs. The lady of the house
declares Obama just nonsenses like a strangled
nightingale does he not my my what gewgaws.
The mister, Mr. Sergeant Manners, ponders
strigils and barbells. He smoothes his appled ascot.
A coat-of-arms medallion tugs his blazer
pocket fakely. Mr. Manners proposes
a parting toast Let us all remember our tax-time
alibi generosity you will certainly
enjoy our docket of local cultural events
poolside poiêsis if you will. Mercury,
balance sheet, the better-meant, Retort
has already left this circus. Thursday
is a workday. Lonely martini glass coolly
blotted with lipstick clarions the night’s desist.
